“For coffee,” the woman agreed, and the mischief made the solemnityridiculous.
Sette leaned forward, pretending she was taking this seriously. The scent of the woman became less like Sette’s father and more like… well, someone she would date in another life. Very clean. Very expensive.Hm, a hint of citrus.
“What do you usually drink?” Sette asked, because if she were to be dragged into this, she might as well steer the ill-fated ship.
The woman tapped a finger on her chin. “At home… espresso. Always. But here…” She waved the menu again. “You have… oat milk. Almond milk. Coconut milk. It is like… a farm.”
Sette snorted. “A farm.”
“Yes.” The woman’s lips twitched. “A very… fashionable farm.”
Sette pointed at a line on the menu. “This is just a latte. Espresso and milk. That’s it.”
The woman leaned closer, hair catching a strip of sunlight. “Just?” she echoed. “Nothing here is just. Everything is… curated.”
Sette’s gaze flicked up, meeting hers again.
Curated.
The word landed like a frivolous gauntlet. Said with humor, but too accurate. Too self-aware. Sette felt, abruptly, likeshewas the thing being studied.
“Do you want it iced?” Sette asked, shifting away from the sensation. “Hot? Sweet?”
The woman’s eyes slid down to Sette’s hands on the table. Not in a leering way, but more like appreciation. Sette’s fingers were faintly stained with paint that hadn’t fully washed out, a smear of ultramarine at the edge of one nail.
“You make things,” the woman said, tone light, as if she had simply noticed. “Art?”
Sette’s throat tightened. “Yes,” she said. “I paint.”
“Ah.” The woman’s smile turned softer for half a second. “Then you understand. The menu is… a performance.”
“It’s coffee,” Sette insisted, but she was smiling now, too.
The woman’s eyes returned to Sette’s face, and there was that sapphic recognition again. It was less about identity now and more about… attention.Intimacy. The ease with which a woman who liked women could see another and decide, almost instantly, to play.
Sette should have shut it down. Instead, she said, “Okay. Tell me what you want.”
The woman pretended to consider, then leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice enough that Sette had to tilt her head closer to hear.
“I want,” she said slowly, “whatever you would order. Because you look like you know what you’re doing.”
Sette huffed a laugh. “That’s your strategy? Flatter the local?”
The woman’s brows lifted. “Is it working?”
Sette’s gaze held hers. Itwasworking, but she didn’t say that.
She took the menu from the woman’s hand and scanned it, pointing. “Get the flat white. It’s not too milky, not too bitter. And ignore the tasting notes. Nobody is drinking ‘hints of stone fruit.’”
The woman watched her with open amusement. “Stone fruit,” she repeated, savoring it.
Sette handed back the menu. Their fingers brushed.Accidentally, deliberately, who can say?It was a small spark that crawled up her arm.
The woman didn’t move away immediately. She stayed beside the table, close enough that Sette could see the faintest scar along her knuckle, pale against tan skin. Close enough that shecould see the tiny line at the corner of her eye that came from smiling often.
“You are very kind,” the woman said.
Sette tilted her head. “Or very easy to manipulate.”
